


The Hand That Mocked, The Heart That Fed

by DachOsmin



Category: Original Work
Genre: Abuse of Authority, Anal Sex, Ancient Egypt, Begging, Forced Orgasm, Humiliation, M/M, Non-Consensual Oral Sex, Politics, Power Imbalance, Slavery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-12
Updated: 2020-07-12
Packaged: 2021-03-04 02:20:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,598
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24855982
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DachOsmin/pseuds/DachOsmin
Summary: It is a great honor, an honor above honors, a thousand times an honor. The Pharaoh is a god on earth, an immortal divinity encased in mortal flesh. To be touched by that, to be taken by it… men would die for the privilege. But Hannu sees the way his master’s face drains into a grey pallor as he reads the summons, and knows it was not meant as an honor at all.
Relationships: Emperor/Disobedient Subordinate's Concubine, Original Male Character/Original Male Character
Comments: 17
Kudos: 178
Collections: Nonconathon 2020





	The Hand That Mocked, The Heart That Fed

**Author's Note:**

  * For [heavensblessing](https://archiveofourown.org/users/heavensblessing/gifts).



In the ninth month of the fifth year of the reign of the Pharaoh Nerikare, Hannu travels to the capital with his master. It is a gentle journey: the Nile is soft and smooth under the turquoise sky, and the shimmer of heat on the banks is cut by the coolness rising off the water.

As their barge nears its destination, Hannu lies on the deck, peering over the prow at the horizon with a dreamy smile. The rushes on the banks whisper and sigh in the cool night air, and the stars are mirrored bright in the depths of the water. On the horizon, Hannu can just make out the golden lights of Thebes.

He reaches down to skim his fingers over the glassy water, and is struck by the thought that he must be the luckiest slave in the world. A slave he may be, but he is his master’s only slave, or the only one that counts, at any rate. Oh, Senebi has others to do the cooking and cleaning on the estate, and others besides to care for his wife’s children, but Hannu is the only one that has a place in his bed. Hannu is the only one he cared for enough to bring with him to Thebes. Truly, he is blessed.

Footsteps sound on the cedar planks of the deck behind him. Hannu opens a lazy eye to see Senebi hovering over him, a look of some concern on his round face. “Dearest one, a word before we arrive.”

“Only a word?” Hannu asks, not bothering to stand up. Instead he rolls over to Senebi’s side, bending down to press a lazy kiss to the bone of Senebi’s ankle. He can just make out Senebi’s quiet gasp over the lap of the water against the side of the boat. He smiles to himself. “Surely you want more than just a word with me?”

“Behave yourself," Senebi sputters, but his voice is fond.

Hannu laughs, arching his back into a low bow like a stretching cat. “Don’t you wish to take me, master?” He looks up at Senebi through his eyelashes, smiles the smile Senebi never seems able to resist.

But this time Senebi manages. Letting out a long-suffering sigh, he steps backwards, out of range of Hannu’s lips and fingers. “It’s a serious matter. Dearest, I want you to promise me something.”

Hannu bats his eyelashes. “Oh, _anything_ , master.”

Senebi swallows, his jowls quivering slightly. “You are… precious to me, and I’d not see anything happen to you. Keep to my chambers once we reach the capital. Do not go outside.”

Stay inside? In the greatest city under Nut’s starry eyes? Is his master mad? Hannu puts on a pretty pout. “But Master! I’ve never been, and there are so many things I wish to see! The great temple of Amun! The House of a Million Years! The Avenue of the Sphinxes!”

“This is an order.” There’s an iron in his master’s voice that Hannu hasn’t heard before. “Stay out of sight. I have enemies. There are those who would see me harmed by hurting you.”

“But you’re such a gallant man,” Hannu wheedles, crawling back over to kneel at his master’s feet. “Surely you’d rescue me if anything befell me.”

“Hannu—”

“And I would be _oh_ so grateful,” Hannu says as he reaches up to pick at the knot of his master’s kilt, “and I would just _have_ to thank you—"

“ _Hannu_ —"

Hannu merrily ignores him as he yanks the linen out of the way and gets to work attending to his master’s cock.

***

But after they arrive in the capital and settle into Senebi’s villa, Hannu finds with dawning horror that his master was serious. Hannu cajoles, whines, pleads, and begs, but all to no avail. Senebi rises from their bed every morning to attend to official business, and Hannu is left to mope around the halls and gardens of the villa until Senebi returns with the dying sun.

By the seventh day in Thebes, Hannu is dying of boredom. There’s a whole city outside the walls of the villa to explore! Surely he deserves at least a peek. Surely nothing bad will happen.

He holds his breath as he slips out of the villa and into the wide boulevard beyond. His heart hammers and his palms sweat as he walks further afield: what if his master was right?

But contrary to all of Senebi’s warnings, no masked ruffians accost him—although quite a few officials and priests cast speculative eyes at the sway of his hips and the fullness of his lips. It puts an extra jauntiness in his step, and he can’t help but smirk back in return. He’ll tell Senebi about it over dinner; after his master finishes scolding him for sneaking out, they’ll have a good laugh about it.

He heads for the palace complex. He’s heard tell of the gardens all his life; their cook back in Aswan had told him once that lilies larger than a man’s head bloom in the pools there. Perhaps he can pick one for her.

When he arrives, he decides that the stories didn’t do the gardens justice. They’re massive, for one thing. The trees and pools stretch as far as the eye can see; Hannu has never seen this much green in his life. The avenues and paths that twist through the compound are shaded with tamarisk and acacia trees; water-loving willows and sycamores hug the shores of the ponds. The water’s surface is bedecked with blue and white lilies, and beneath them Hannu can make out the flash of fins.

Everything is cool shade and fragrance on the faint breeze. And everywhere there are flowers, bursting into bloom in a riot of colors: lapis blue, carnelian red, and golden yellow. Hannu can make out anemones and poppies and jasmine flowers, as well as dozens of others that he has no name for.

He wanders the grounds, entranced by the colors and the smells of the flowers, bewitched by the cool breezes and the drift of holy music on the wind, his feet carrying him on and on, further into the garden.

And then, quite abruptly, he hears a familiar voice carry through the palm fronds.

“—but I cannot. Surely you understand?”

Senebi. But what is his master doing here? And who is he talking to? Eager for a better look, Hannu heads in the direction of his master’s voice. This involves a bit of bushwhacking through the hedgerows, and the next few things said are lost in the rustle of the leaves. Finally, he makes it to a decent hiding spot; he peers through the drapery of a willow tree and—there!

Two men walk side by side down a broad path paved in lapis tiles. They’re facing away from him, but Hannu would recognize his master’s familiar waddle anywhere. The other man is tall and broad-shouldered, and the weave of his linen is fine. There’s a headdress of some sort on his brow, but Hannu can’t see it properly from his vantage point. Perhaps he’s a priest? For the first time, Hannu wishes he’d paid attention when Senebi had explained to him what manner of official business had brought them to Thebes in the first place.

He watches as Senebi flutters his hands, like he's shooing away a fly. “—pains me deeply that I cannot do as you wish,” he says. “It cuts me to the bone.”

Hannu frowns. He’s never heard Senebi sound so… servile. Why is the ruler of the great city of Aswan and all the land around speaking like a slave to a master? Why such a cringing, obsequious tone?

The other man tuts. “We’re saddened to hear it, Senebi.” And then he turns, and Hannu can’t help the gasp that breaks from his lips, because the man is crowned with the vulture and the cobra. The double crown. The Pharaoh’s crown.

Suddenly there are rough hands grabbing at his arms, yanking him from his hiding place and out into the pathway beyond. He whips his head around and gets a quick glance of soldiers in royal livery, and then he’s being dumped at the Pharaoh Nerikare’s feet.

The Pharaoh’s sandals are golden, encrusted with slivers of olivine and amethyst. The turquoise beads of his anklets shake as he taps his foot.

Hannu blinks. He should—he should say something. He opens his mouth, trying to remember how words work. “My lord, Radiance, I—"

“We can’t abide pests in our gardens,” the Pharaoh says lightly. He gestures towards one of the soldiers, and Hannu is certain in his heart of hearts that this is how his life ends, with a soft-spoken word and a spray of carnelian blood over the tiles of the Pharaoh’s garden. He closes his eyes.

“No, no, my lord!” Senebi runs over, almost tripping over the trails of his robe in his haste. “A thousand pardons, my lord, but he’s a member of my household.”

Silence stretches, and it’s unbearable. Then the Pharaoh lets out a low chuckle. “Senebi, Senebi. You hadn’t told us you brought a plaything with you to court.”

The beads in Senebi’s wig make a great clacking noise as he shakes his head. “He’s no one, great lord, merely an errand boy. My steward must have sent him here with a message for me.” There’s a warning in his tone, but it’s hardly necessary; Hannu knows better than to try to gainsay him at a time like this.

A noncommittal hum. “But Senebi, surely we are paying you too much if you can outfit your drudges with lapis anklets and golden rings.”

Senebi swallows. “He must have stolen them from my wardrobe, great lord. I’ll have him beaten.”

“No need, no need. It would be a shame to mar that pretty skin.”

“Your majesty is wise,” Senebi croaks.

The Pharaoh accepts this with a nod, a faint smile still hovering on his painted lips. “Think on what we discussed, Senebi. It would be a shame if we were not able to come to some accord on the matter.” And with that he’s sweeping away, his guards in tow behind him.

Hannu stares at the tiles beneath his palms as the Pharaoh’s footsteps and the clank of armor grow fainter and fainter. At last they only sound is the chirp of birds from the willow trees and the harsh breathing of his master. He dares to look up.

Senebi stands over him. His face is ashen, and there’s a wild look in his eyes. When he reaches down, Hannu can’t help but flinch away. Will Senebi hit him?

But instead he grips Hannu’s arms and pulls him to his feet, engulfing him in a tight embrace. “You stupid boy,” Senebi says, his voice cracking as he buries his face in the crook of Hannu’s neck. “You stupid, stupid boy.”

That night, the summons comes.

***

Hannu kneels in the center of his master’s room as Senebi reads the papyrus to him, his voice utterly wooden. Hannu is to prepare himself and attend to the Pharaoh at his earliest convenience. Which, of course, means right away.

It is a great honor, an honor above honors, a thousand times an honor. Nerikare is a god on earth, an immortal divinity encased in mortal flesh. To be touched by that, to be taken by it… men would die for the privilege. But Hannu sees the way Senebi’s face drains into a grey pallor, and knows it was not meant as an honor at all.

He prepares himself as well as he can, mindful of the time. He sits on the floor by the foot of the bed he shares with Senebi and opens his makeup box, letting himself take some comfort in the familiar routine of mixing the powders and stirring the kohl. Still, his hand is shaking so badly when he tries to limn his eyes that it takes him a second try to get the line straight.

He wills his hand steady and gets to work dusting crushed malachite to his eyelids. He is a warrior on the edge of battle, and this is his armor. It must be perfect; the façade must not crack. When he finishes with the malachite and prepares a palette of red ochre and myrrh oil for his cheeks, his hands barely shake at all. He sits there a moment, concentrating on the scent, letting his mind go blank: anything to put off what he must do next.

But the word of a Pharaoh is an order from heaven. He cannot delay.

With clenched teeth, he dips his fingers into the bottle of oil and wets them up to the first knuckle. Then, hardly caring if he makes a mess, he reaches back to open himself up.

Sometimes Senebi bids him do this as entertainment. He’s always enjoyed it: kneeling at the foot of Senebi’s bed, working himself open with slow pushes of his fingers, exaggerating every sigh, every moan, until Senebi’s eyes are wide with lust under the guttering lamplight.

Now the act feels unwelcome. Even though it’s his own fingers pressing inside, they’re a portent of what’s to come. His muscles spasm and sting as he shoves his fingers deeper, ruthlessly trying to relax. All he can think about is the way Nerikare had looked at him in the garden, like a hungry crocodile with its mouth wide open.

At last he gives up; he’s as ready as he’s going to be considering the circumstances. He wipes his hand clean on a rag and then ties his kilt in a simple knot so that it hangs low on his hips. He opens his jewelry box and dumps the contents onto his bed. The pile of gold and gemstones glitters in the lamplight like a king’s hoard: Senebi has been generous over the years. But as Hannu slips a pair of carnelian and amethyst bangles onto his wrists, all he can feel is the ghost of manacles. The golden collar he clasps around his throat feels no better.

He shivers and turns to leave; he cannot be late for this. He catches a glance of himself in the copper mirror resting at his bedside as he heads for the door; the thin figure in the mirror has a wild look in his eye.

Senebi is waiting for him when he exits his room, hovering like a hummingbird, his hands twisting over themselves. He opens his mouth to speak, and Hannu braces himself, because if Senebi says something gentle he thinks he might break and burst into tears.

But he doesn’t get the chance, because before Senebi can say anything there’s a knock at the door, and when Hannu rushes to open it he finds two stone-faced guards in royal livery waiting on the stoop.

They guide him silently through the dark avenues of the city, to the house of the Pharaoh. He finds himself getting lightheaded as they enter the palace complex proper. The corridors seem endless, and there’s no rhyme or reason to the turns they take or the doorways they pass through. His footsteps echo off the walls and the ceiling until he’s half convinced there’s an army marching just out of sight. The play of the lamps over the wall paintings and the shadows cast by the columns hint at gods or demons dancing alongside him. There must be other people in the compound—he can hear whispers, murmurs, laughter—but he sees no one but the taciturn guards that walk on either side of him.

Finally, they arrive at a doorway. The soldiers stop, and the one at Hannu’s left gestures forward with a silent wave of his hand.

Hannu swallows and presses his hand against the cedarwood of the door; it swings silently inward at his touch. He takes a deep breath. And steps over the threshold, into the Pharaoh’s inner chambers.

The first thing that strikes him is the color. The room abounds in it: every wall is painted with a riot of murals. There are dancing girls bedecked with gemstone girdles and lithe flute players, and above them the ceiling is a riot of swooping birds.

He’s so overwhelmed that he almost misses the man in the midst of it all, reclining on a low bed. The Pharaoh Nerikare, king of kings.

He’s no longer wearing the finery from the garden: he’s changed the double crown for a simpler linen covering, held in place with a thin circlet of hammered gold. But he’s smiling the same half-smile he’d had before, as if he’s privy to some little joke. It should make Hannu feel more at ease. It doesn’t.

With a start, Hannu realizes he’s been standing gape-mouthed for at least three breaths; he throws himself to his knees and bows his forehead to the tiles, hands outstretched before him. “I beg forgiveness, Radiance,” he mutters to the floor.

Nerikare lets out a tinkle of a laugh, as if Hannu has said something particularly amusing. “We are glad you could come.” As if Hannu had a choice in the matter.

“I am honored,” Hannu murmurs. His mouth is dry, and he can feel the dampness of his skin through the linen of his kilt.

“What’s your name, boy?” Nerikare asks.

“Hannu,” he whispers.

“Hannu,” Nerikare says, as if tasting the name on his tongue. “It pleases us.”

Hannu wonders for a hysterical moment what would happen if his name _didn’t_ please the Pharaoh. Would Nerikare strip him of it? Give him some other, better name? Or cast him out of the palace, to haunt the desert with the ghosts of the forgotten and nameless dead? “My lord is far too kind,” he says at last.

Another laugh. “Come, let us get a better look at you.”

Heart pounding, Hannu gets to his feet. He wishes the Pharaoh’s couch were farther away, that it would take longer for him to get there. But it’s just five steps, and then he’s standing at the edge of the couch, close enough that Nerikare could reach out and touch him. For lack of anything better to do, he kneels again on the tiles, casting his eyes downward.

Nerikare’s hand slips beneath his chin, pushing it up just enough that Hannu is forced to meet his eyes. They’re sharp, like a hunting hawk’s. His fingers are very warm against Hannu’s skin.

“Your master said you were an errand boy, nothing more. Is that true?”

“I—I run errands for him sometimes.” Hannu racks his brain, trying to think of the last time he’d done anything resembling an errand for Senebi that didn’t involve fetching oil for his cock.

Nerikare’s fingers slip out from beneath his chin, trailing over his cheek. “But Hannu,” he says, his voice too familiar by far. “Surely you’re more than a drudge. You’re far too fair to waste on such sundries.”

Hannu licks his lips. Betray his master, or lie to the Pharaoh? “My lord is wise,” he whispers.

“Ahh, but we’re being unfair, aren’t we?” Nerikare says lightly. “In truth, we’re in a foul mood. Your master disappointed us today. Has he told you of his tariffs on Punt?”

Hannu can barely remember where Punt is. “No, Radiance. He doesn’t discuss such things with me.”

“Perhaps the wisest thing that can be said of him,” Nerikare says with a snort. “No matter; we shan’t bore you with politics. Suffice to say: we asked him to do something for us. And he refused to do it.”

“Oh.” A stupid thing to say, but Hannu can’t think of anything better. His every instinct is screaming danger, every muscle in his body wants to run for the door. But of course he can’t.

“Horrible, isn’t it?” Nerikare continues. His voice has gone darker, harsher. “For a man to break faith in such a way. Like a hound that bites the hand that feeds it.” His hand suddenly tightens around Hannu’s neck, the filed points of his nails digging into the soft flesh just beneath his jaw.

Blood pounds in Hannu’s head, and for the second time that day he’s sure he’s facing down his own death. But just as he’s saying his prayers to the gods, Nerikare abruptly relaxes his grip and drops his hand.

“But you wouldn’t do such a thing, would you Hannu?”

“No, Radiance,” he stammers.

“Good,” Nerikare croons, and his voice is once again honeyed softness. “So tell us truthfully: how do you serve your master?”

“I do—I do whatever he asks of me.”

“And what, pray tell, does he ask of you?”

He can feel the trap closing in around him. “I—I attend to him.”

Nerikare tsks. “You’re going to need to be more specific.”

“I fill his cup at banquets,” Hannu mumbles. “I play him music on the ney and the sistrum. I…”

“Yes?”

“I… service him. As he wishes it.” The words taste bitter in his mouth, like defeat.

Nerikare’s eyes are dark and glittering in the lamp light. “And how does he wish it, dear Hannu?”

Words fail him. “He… I…”

The backhand slap comes from nowhere, hard enough that Hannu cries out as it lands on his cheek. The rings on Nerikare’s fingers bite cruelly where they scrape his skin, and as Nerikare pulls his hand away Hannu feels the wetness of blood beading up in their wake. “My lord—"

“You’re a common-bred, jumped-up whore, little more than a pretty set of holes to entertain a provincial lordling in his dotage,” Nerikare murmurs. “This false modesty does not become you.” He scrapes a finger through the blood on Hannu’s skin, smearing it over his cheeks, making a mess of his makeup. “Now tell us: how do you service your master?”

“I—however he wishes it. I… take him inside of me. Or I let him use my mouth, if he asks me.”

“So he fucks your plump lips and your pretty little arse,” Nerikare says, and Hannu can’t help but gasp; the words sound doubly obscene spilling from the lips of the Pharaoh.

“And do you, shameless whore that you are, take pleasure from it?” Nerikare continues. “Do you spend when he plows you?”

“Yes,” Hannu stammers, and to his horror he feels tears welling up to blur his eyes.

“Excellent. We will take it as a betrayal if you fail to do so with us, little one.”

And before Hannu can react, Nerikare is yanking his head close with one hand, and flipping the linen of his own kilt out of the way with the other, revealing a thick cock already half hard with interest. “Suck.”

Clumsy with fear, Hannu falls forward to press a sloppy kiss to the base of Nerikare’s cock, causing Nerikare to let out a breathless hiss above him. It’s a well-formed cock, all things considered: longer and thicker than Senebi’s by far. Hannu takes it in his mouth, curling his lips carefully over his teeth. He pulls out every trick he can think of, bobbing his head, swirling his tongue, and hollowing his cheeks—anything to please this man that holds his life between the tips of his perfectly manicured fingers.

As he works, he discovers a key difference between the Pharaoh and his master. When Hannu uses his mouth on Senebi, his master is generally content to lie back and let him work, perhaps lifting a hand to rub over Hannu’s neck or murmur encouragement here and there.

Nerikare has a much less retiring nature. As Hannu pulls his mouth back to take a breath, Nerikare lets out a breathless laugh, takes Hannu’s tresses in hand, and shoves his cock back into Hannu’s mouth as deep as it will go, so that Hannu’s nose is pressed into the thatch of Nerikare’s curls.

Hannu gags around the intrusion, his eyes blurring with more tears, his lungs burning for air. He wrenches his eyes shut against his stinging tears and focuses on breathing through his nose: in, out, in, out. This is no time for artistry: it’s all he can do to keep his jaw wide open and his teeth covered; he doesn’t know what will happen if Nerikare feels a tooth, but he doesn’t want to find out.

“You’re a delight,” Nerikare says, panting slightly. “Your master has trained you very well. We shall have to commend him.” And with that, he yanks at Hannu’s tresses, pulling out and driving deep into his throat again, and again, and again.

Lightheaded from lack of air, his throat burning and his eyes stinging, there’s nothing Hannu can do but take Nerikare’s cock and shudder as Nerikare fucks his mouth. By now his eye kohl is blurring and running down his cheeks with his tears, and every thrust of Nerikare’s cock drives a moan from deep in his chest. And still it continues. By the gods, will it go on forerver? Hannu closes his eyes and prays to every god he knows for deliverance, an end to this, _anything._

Above him, Nerikare sighs. "Ah, but it would be a waste to spend in your mouth." And before Hannu can process what he means, Nerikare plants a foot on Hannu’s chest and shoves him away. He falls to the floor, landing hard on his back. He lies there in a daze, panting and gasping in great mouthfuls of air, his chest heaving with the effort.

A dark shape looms over him, and then Nerikare is grabbing him by his collar and yanking him to his feet. He goes, gasping, stumbling as he tries to remember how to stand.

“We wish to have your arse,” Nerikare says as he shoves Hannu down onto the bed, slamming his elbow into Hannu’s lower back so that he collapses onto his stomach with a cry. “Disrobe for us.”

With shaking fingers Hannu reaches down to remove his kilt. His fingers are clumsy as he works at undoing the knot, and each time he fails to untie it he cringes, expecting a slap or a blow. But none comes, and somehow it’s almost worse: punishment lying in wait, like a hanging sword.

At last he succeeds at untying the kilt and pulls it out of the way, baring his buttocks to the Pharaoh. His skin feels utterly exposed. He is helpless, powerless, defenseless like this—and he knows that Nerikare knows it too.

The Pharaoh’s hand, when it comes, is not a slap, but instead a whispering of fingers down the furrow of his spine, so gentle that the touch feels like a parody of affection.

“Your skin is smoother than a dancing girl’s,” Nerikare murmurs. “No wonder Senebi enjoys you so.”

“My lord is kind,” Hannu mumbles. His throat burns as he speaks, raw and aching.

“If only your master had such pretty manners,” Nerikare says with a sigh. “Now: hold yourself open for us.”

Biting back a whimper, Hannu reaches behind his back. He grips his buttocks in his hands and pulls them apart, baring himself to the Pharaoh. It’s utterly humiliating, and he can feel his face flush hot with shame. The smallest of mercies: with his face shoved into Nerikare’s linens, his shame is hidden.

The blunt head of Nerikare’s cock presses up against his entrance, and Hannu can’t hold back the choking sob that wells up from his lips. It feels massive, far bigger than Senebi’s even at the height of his pleasure.

Nerikare chuckles and rubs the head back and forth over Hannu’s entrance, slicking the way with his precum and the oil that Hannu had worked into himself earlier. “And we see you’ve prepared yourself already! Or perhaps you always walk around thus, slicked up and eager to take a cock.”

And with that, Nerikare breaches him. There is no slow pressing to train Hannu’s muscles to accommodate his girth, no gentle half-thrust to get his bearings. Instead he plunges in, fast and hard, until he’s sunk to the hilt.

It feels like a javelin to the gut, white-hot and stabbing, and Hannu cannot help but shriek at the intrusion, his hands scrabbling at the bed, his toes curling from the pain of it.

Nerikare chuckles darkly and pulls out before pressing back in with a second attack. “You’re tighter than a temple virgin. It’s a wonder Senebi’s had you at all.”

Hannu opens his mouth to reply, but his words turn into a broken moan at the next thrust of Nerikare’s cock. He arches his back away from the intrusion, trying to spare himself some measure of the pain. But he’s trapped: between the heat of Nerikare’s body and the confines of the bed there’s nowhere for him to go.

“You’re a slippery one,” Nerikare grunts. He grabs Hannu’s wrists, hard enough that Hannu knows they will bloom with bruises by morning. Still thrusting in a steady rhythm, he manhandles Hannu’s arms so that they’re cruelly twisted behind his back, pulling on them as one would reins on a war chariot.

And then Nerikare begins to fuck Hannu in earnest, pounding away, giving no quarter or mercy. He uses Hannu most cruelly, like he is nothing but a receptacle, nothing but a hole to be breached, opened, filled. The bangles on Hannu’s wrists jangle against each other as Nerikare thrusts, setting a discordant rhythm.

Beneath him, Hannu gasps. The pain is terrible; every thrust breaks him further apart, dashing his composure into pieces like a reed-lashed boat on the open ocean. His shoulders scream as Nerikare yanks on his arms; his knees ache where they dig into the wooden bedframe.

But worst of all is the dark shame flickering low in his gut: the hammering of Nerikare’s cock is affecting him, and his own cock has begun to swell. He wishes it weren’t. He wishes he were a stone statue, unfamiliar with fear and pain and the base betrayals of human bodies. But he isn’t.

Nerikare thrusts again, and this time Hannu cannot bite back his moan.

With a laugh, Nerikare reaches around him to thumb at the heavy head of his cock. “We are disappointed,” Nerikare pants as he thrusts forward, fucking into Hannu’s arse with abandon. “We give you such a gift, and you have not yet spent in gratitude?”

Hannu gropes for his words, trying to remember what it is that he should say, what might please Nerikare. “Please, Radiance,” he gasps.

Nerikare deals him a particularly savage thrust, letting out a breathless laugh. “Please what, little one?”

“Please, touch me,” Hannu moans. He cannot tell what burns hotter: the shame heating his skin, or the dark desire building in his stones. Every measure of his skin feels filthy, tainted, wrong.

“Touch you where?”

He swallows, says what he must, what Nerikare wants to hear. “My cock, Radiance, please…”

“Ah, Hannu,” Nerikare says, “We have half a mind to tie you up and give you no relief at all, since you beg so prettily.”

He’s suddenly seized with the picture of it: tied up in golden chains in the Pharaoh’s chamber, used and abused for days on end with no relief. It horrifies him and arouses him in equal measure, and he hates himself for it. “Please,” he cries. “Please, please—"

Nerikare rolls his hips forward again. “It is our solemn duty to see to the wellbeing of our subjects.”

His hand clenches around Hannu’s cock so that with every thrust he’s driving Hannu forward into the tight ring of his fingers. They’re tight, too tight, just short of painful—but between the relentless hammering of Nerikare’s cock in his arse and the pleasure-pain of his hand, Hannu’s pleasure builds, weighing heavier and heavier in the pit of his gut until he’s gasping with it, trembling with every touch, a mess of moans and cries and spasming muscles.

Nerikare growls, his breath hot against the shell of Hannu’s ear. “Come for us, little one.” And with a particularly vicious twist of his hand, he forces Hannu’s peak.

Hannu screams as he comes, jerking like a wooden puppet as he spends, painting his thighs and the Pharaoh’s linens with semen. Nerikare hammers him through it, merciless in pursuit of his own peak.

Hannu whimpers as his pleasure turns to over-sensitized pain, but there’s nothing he can do but lie there and feel it, every nerve in his body alight, every muscle trembling.

Finally Nerikare’s strokes turn erratic, and with a great cry he buries his cock to the hilt, filling Hannu’s arse with a warm stickiness before collapsing on the bed next to him, spent.

***

In the aftermath, Hannu holds himself still as stone while Nerikare lazes next to him, playing idly with his hair. He can feel Nerikare’s semen seeping out of his abused hole, dripping down to coat his inner thighs.

“You were lovely,” Nerikare murmurs. “Compliments to your master.”

“Thank you, Radiance,” Hannu whispers.

“Just a reminder,” Nerikare says, tugging lightly on one of Hannu’s braids. “Senebi is your master, but we are his master. You both belong to us. And we will do what we wish with our property, do you understand?”

Hannu closes his eyes. “I understand, Radiance,” he whispers. He wishes he didn’t. He wishes he didn’t exist.

“Very good,” Nerikare purrs. “Oh: and tell Senebi to expect a summons on the morrow. We wish to discuss his tariffs again. Perhaps he’s changed his mind on them of late.”

And with that, Nerikare sends Hannu, covered in come and tears, back to his master.


End file.
